


For Your Health

by ThisThatAndTheOther



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-27 18:18:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisThatAndTheOther/pseuds/ThisThatAndTheOther
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Clarkson orders Thomas to quit smoking due to health reasons. Abstinence syndrome begins and the staff may regret the doctor's orders when they realise they have to live and work with an under-butler experiencing nicotine withdrawl. Fill for one of the prompts on the kink meme, though it's decidedly not kinky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for one of the prompts on the DA kink meme, which went like this:
> 
> Dr. Clarkson orders Thomas to quit smoking. It does his body no good, he's getting breathless quite easily and the maid cannot wash the smell of his clothes anymore. It is not an option. Abstinence syndrome begins. Seems funny at first, but soon Downstairs realize they have to stick together if they all want to survive the madness of Tommy without his precious smoking.
> 
>  
> 
> As a former smoker who found quitting to be a breeze, I found this prompt to be horrifying and hilarious!

The life of Thomas Barrow had its fair share of trials. Born second son to a poor clockmaker, he was not set to inherit the family business, nor had he been inclined to work for the absolute clot his older brother was, whose crucial failings were least not the business of clocks. Or business, full stop, if Thomas was being fully honest with himself. And when it came to the flaws of others, he prided himself in his commitment to staunch sincerity.

He was a medic during the Great War and would rather not think of that at the present time, thank you; daily view of the scar he earned from his time spent slogging in the trenches was more than enough. Its stiffness in the cold served as a permanent and painful reminder of the oppressive fear he experienced, and I thought I told you we weren’t getting into this.

Later in life, he had come to accept that he was a member of a serving staff that seemed to be comprised largely of insufferable simpleton of the neighbouring counties. Thomas liked to think he even graciously accepted the hands dealt by Fortune when these very same people took it upon themselves to quietly (and sometimes not so quietly) condemn his personal and romantic preferences – preferences which, he admitted, hadn't always worked in his favour. In fact, when Thomas was feeling particularly introspective – or when he had managed to sneak a few glasses of wine and got in a mood – these preferences had been the cause of some of the most genuinely agonizing moments in his life. Admittedly, they had also been the source of the most unquestionably euphoric moments of his life, but those had been few and far between and is ultimately besides the point of this exercise, if you could please stay focused.

This unfulfilling and mostly non-existent love life of disappointments betrayed him again and abandoned him in the land of unreciprocated and unwanted love when he fell for a man who was both his junior and his subordinate. A man whose smile and hair and face seemed to be evermore bright and beautiful and youthful each day that passed. Unfortunately, his object of affection also nearly cost him his job, the respect of many of his peers, and the chance to play an annual game of cricket. Thomas believed he didn’t brag very often, but he knew he played an absolute cracking game. He could score runs just about as well as he could wear the atrocious combination of white trousers and jumpers – which is to say he scored a lot of runs and looked fabulous doing it.

But today may be the straw that would break the camel’s back. Today would be the straw that, while said camel was recuperating, caused the camel’s wife to leave him and grind his heart to dust, make bread with it, and then use it to make a grilled toastie for that neighbouring camel. Today would be the straw that would lead the camel down a treacherous path of bitter alcoholism and drug-abuse once he recovered and discovered the wife took the kids and was living with that other more handsome, stronger neighbour. Today could very well be the straw that persuaded the camel to take a cocktail of coccidiostats and end it all.

Because today was the day Thomas was ordered to quit smoking.

And it was all Alfred’s fault.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas is in denial about his smoker's cough. The staff try their best to convince him to quit, but Thomas won't stand for it until a professional opinion is made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "wise man" Thomas quotes in this chapter is Mark Twain.
> 
> And anyone who can spot the poorly constructed and very weak reference to The Twelfth Night wins brownies.

_The one where Thomas pretends he isn't ill and Doctor Clarkson begs to differ._

It had been a busy day in Downton, though not for any particular reason over another; it was a large estate with many cogs and wheels whirring together to maintain its grand operation, and more times than nought the downstairs staff became frantic with the burden of its collective duties. Thomas supposed that, now as the abbey’s first ever under-butler, he should be concerned with the efficiency of the staff beyond just how it would affect his own workload; however, two things stopped him from losing his hat and conducting weekly staff meetings extolling the merits of synergy. 

One was that Carson would never stand for that sort of nonsense from him, as Mr. Carson felt he was still the only “actual” butler employed at Downton, who had a “responsibility” to demonstrate “the moral compass” for the others, and he didn’t need Thomas’ idea of “management” to help him with his duties as such – duties Mr. Carson reminded the younger man that had been fulfilled for several decades now without anyone’s assistance. Thomas would have liked to have reminded Mr. Carson that it was under Lord Grantham’s express instruction that he was there to offer his assistance in the first place but wisely chose not to. 

The butler would rather concentrate his time on individual cases, offering sound tutelage and support when a person’s work required it. While Thomas mostly agreed with this method, he remembered his own experience under Carson’s focused guidance and recalled more of the older man’s disappointed sighs and sharp tongue than anything else. But then again, not everyone could be like Alfred and butter Mr. Carson up until he was ready to fall over himself to help find a sodding soup spoon. Nevertheless, Thomas was smart enough to recognise this technique had its failings. He would bide his time before suggesting an alternative.

The second reason that stopped Thomas from opening his mouth, loathed as he was to admit, was due to anxiety. Although the dark event that almost cost him his place at the abbey occurred months and months ago, he still felt as though it was ever present in everyone’s minds. It certainly was on his mind most nights, to such an extent that he had begun to refer to it ominously as The Foolish Night. He found himself walking on egg shells most days when dealing with the staff in personal regards, with the exception of Mrs. Hughes, Anna, and – much to his chagrin – Mr. Bates. 

Thomas took pride in his work, however, and projected to his subordinates what he knew to be a smooth confidence and a quick wit. He had a keen eye for detail and expected others to emulate his standards – a trait that Thomas knew had silently rankled Mr. Carson for years, in spite of it being one of the reasons why Downton ran as smoothly as it did. Perhaps he was a little reserved and sullen most days, but this was because Thomas was convinced the others were saying things about him behind his back. Much to his dismay, he knew that it included dear Jimmy. Sure, Thomas may have indulged in some pretty entertaining slander when he was younger, but that was different. In any case, Thomas avowed to keep clear of any controversy. 

Additionally, Thomas supposed he did enjoy seeing everyone running about the place like chickens without their heads, but that would be a third reason and then he would have to revise his whole list. Until further notice, it would remain a secret footnote to the whole affair.

But presently, he could be counted among the headless fowl, and he found he did not care for it. Since his promotion to under-butler, his hectic days had increased twice-fold. Thomas knew this was partly because no-one quite knew what an under-butler was expected to do and so he had become the catch-all for odd-jobs. Yes, he now shadowed Mr. Carson in some of the butler’s tasks; inventory of the pantry and dining room were dreadfully boring, but Thomas thought he could learn to live with working in the wine cellar, despite Carson’s misgivings. He also supervised many of the duties of the footmen, Alfred and Jimmy, despite their own set of misgivings. Until Carson finally croaked it, however, it would seem Thomas was destined to be a glorified footman.

It was on such an occasion that Thomas was exercising such footmanly duties that he found himself running up the stairs with a tray of silver for which to set the table, while Alfred followed close behind him. By the time he reached the top of the stairs, he had to stop to catch his breath. The reprieve also let his heart calm itself from its erratic beating against his chest.

Behind him, he could hear Alfred barely caught his footing before redirecting himself and avoiding a collision with the winded man.

“Uh –,” Alfred cleared his throat, “are you alright there, Mr. Barrow?” 

Thomas was not sure which concerned him most: the fact that Alfred seemed to be exhibiting real concern for his well being, or the fact that he could only nod in reply. He felt oddly touched, but he would rather be caught dead with his trousers down than admit that to another human being.

“Are you out of breath?” A smirk is clearly evident on the gangly berk.

Thomas’ faith in humanity instantly vanished and he scowled. He cleared his throat and let loose a somewhat wet cough.

“It’s no matter to you. Some of us don’t have abnormally long legs to propel us every which way we please.” If Thomas’ voice was a little hoarse, he chose to ignore it. 

And so what if he was out of breath? He wasn’t getting any younger and lived a (mostly) honest and industrious life. He was allowed to get tired once in a while. He lived through a war, for God’s sake.

“Let’s ensure these arrive at the table before the dinner does, yes?”

To think that the issue had been dropped and forgotten about was a naïve notion on Thomas’ part. Needless to say, he was blindsided at dinner when the topic of conversation turned to him. 

“Feeling any better, Mr. Barrow?” Alfred asked.

Thomas had a spoonful of stew in his mouth, so he resorted to levelling a dark glare at Alfred instead.

“Are you feeling unwell, Thomas?” Mrs. Hughes asked, ever the compassionate soul.

“Oh it’s just that he winded himself going up the stairs this afternoon, is all.” Alfred kindly offered in his stead. “He looked like he was ready to faint.”

Having swallowed the gelatinous chunk of meat, Thomas affirmed, “I was not, nor am I currently, feeling ill.” He set down his spoon carefully next to his bowl and straightened his back. “Thank you for your concern, Alfred, but I need none of it.” 

Of course, this would have been far more believable if he hadn’t concluded his pledge of health with a wracking cough that brought up some mucous reminiscent of the stew’s gravy he had just eaten. He hoped no one noticed his wince when he swallowed it back down.

“My, surely you’ll tell us there’s a horse in the bathtub next,” Miss O’Brien said with a tight smile, which sent a titter throughout the table’s occupants.

“Now, now. If Thomas believed that his health has compromised his ability to work, then he will discuss this matter with me in private,” Mr. Carson said.

Thomas felt suitably put out. Ultimately, he deemed it unnecessary to defend himself against such treacherous people and let Mr. Carson’s statement speak for itself. He chose instead to dig his pack of smokes out of his pocket.

At the sight of the cigarette between his lips, Anna drew up her eyebrows.

“Mr. Barrow, do you think it wise to be smoking when you lungs are congested so?” Thomas could tell she was motivated by nothing but genuine concern, judging by her almost hushed volume, but he still had to bite his tongue from telling her where to shove it. If a man couldn’t have a cigarette now and again, then what did he have?

“Perhaps it would be best to rest your lungs, Thomas,” suggested Mrs. Hughes. “After all, you do smoke quite a bit,” she paused here as she dug her spoon into her meal before continuing, “and it can’t help your breathing any.”

“It doesn’t help mine, neither,” Jimmy contributed, after which he shared a glance with Ivy who grinned in return. That gorgeous, rat bastard.

At that point, Thomas felt unfairly abused and in protest lit his smoke with a flourish. He made sure to blow the smoke towards Jimmy and his pal. He may be lying low, but he wouldn’t be a lying dog begging to be beaten either.

“Oh, but Thomas, think of how better you’d feel!” Cried Daisy. The fact that Thomas refrained from commenting on her use of his Christian name reflected how overwhelmed he was to be under such an assault of supposed concern.

“If you stopped, I mean. You’d quit wheezin’ like you do in the mornings, maybe?”

“I– wheezing?!” Thomas exclaimed incredulously, praying to the Gods that his voice hadn’t sounded as girlishly high to the others as it did to him. And while he was at it – praying to Gods that didn’t exist – he hoped that his eyes hadn’t widened in that frenzied panic-ridden way that he knew made him look half-mad.

“It certainly would make my job easier,” said one of the scullery maids, as if anyone asked her for her opinion. 

At everyone’s blank stares, she continued, “Your clothes, Mr. Barrow. They’d be a dream to clean if it weren’t for the smell of those things.”

It had finally happened. 

Thomas’ descent into hell was finally complete; he was being criticised by a homely maid whose name he had never bothered to learn. Surely, he had not sinned so much so as to deserve this treatment. Perhaps he should have invested more faith in those Gods – any of them, really. Then conceivably he would have avoided this whole foray where decorum and couth went out the window. And he undoubtedly would have avoided a lot of other choice mishaps along the way.

He was startled out of his morose reflections when the cheeky maid grasped his right hand, cigarette and all.

“And you have nothing to blame but those fags for the state of your fingers,” she scolded.

For a brief moment she held his hand aloft, offering the nicotine stained tips to all and sundry to see. Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas saw Carson stiffen. At least he had one ally who thought this insolent behaviour was unacceptable. He ripped his hand out of her clutch as if scandalised, but he merely doubted the maid’s commitment to personal hygiene. His fingers may be stained yellow but at least they were clean of the day’s dirt; he could not speak the same of hers.

“Excuse me,” Thomas replied haughtily, “but I don’t recall paying a penny for your thoughts. I don’t have a lot of leisure time, and what I choose to do in those spare moments is my own business.” Unfortunately at this point Thomas thoughts went to previous spare moments, specifically to that of Jimmy and The Foolish Night. It took all of his will power not to look at the boy. The motion of placing the cigarette between his lips and pulling in a drag of smoke didn’t help matters – that is if you were orally fixated, which, well let’s not get into it.

“Besides, my father smoked every day of his life,” he said to the whole table. Thomas failed to reveal that his father had died at the age of forty a withered and sickly man.

“What was good enough for him is good enough for me.” He also failed to mention that he rebelled against his father nearly everyday of his life, for the two never quite met eye-to-eye on what was considered ‘good’.

After a beat he added, “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint everybody, but it’s just not on.” He took one final and deep drag before butting out.

“A wise man once said, “If smoking is not allowed in heaven, I shall not go”, and I’m inclined to agree.” Thomas said as he straightened his jacket and posture.

“Well, I dare say you’ll have to worry about making that decision.” Miss O’Brien remarked. Thomas opened his mouth to deliver a scathing reply when Carson rose from his seat. 

“And that will be the end of such talk, thank you. Dinner is over and you may all resume your duties. The dinner gong shall be rung in forty minutes time.”

That set a flurry of action into motion, as everyone rose from their seats and the kitchen maids began clearing the table of dishes. Thomas sent one last stormy scowl towards Miss O’Brien’s smug face before preparing himself for the night’s duties.

 

For a while, it seemed as though Carson had the final word on the subject. Thomas was content to forget that the matter ever existed and continued to smoke without abandon. If there were instances where he coughed loudly or felt fatigued and breathless, he thought nothing of them; it was soon to be winter, and his room had always been draughty; it would be no wonder if he caught something. Nor did anyone else deem it fit to mention his increased wheezing or expectorating. They did, however, exchange knowing glances when he hacked up a lung over tea or when he excused himself to smoke in the solitude of the courtyard. 

Only Mrs. Patmore showed any overt signs of frustration (read here, rage) by passive aggressively sighing whenever Thomas coughed, cleared his throat, or smoked. This developed into a near constant exhalation of air from the cook, to which Thomas dismissed as the hysterics typical to a “woman of a certain age”.

It wasn’t until the Crawleys hosted a dinner party that the issue was addressed again. The guest list included various lords and ladies as well as Violet Crawley and Dr. Clarkson. Thomas was asked to assist in the dinner service, in addition to greeting guests before, and waiting on the guests after, the meal. To Mr. Carson’s surprise and delight, Thomas accepted these duties gladly without comment and was representing Downton exceptionally well. Thomas thought it prudent to apply himself in all avenues of his work, including now his attitude. The two men stood at opposite ends of the serving table, each rigid and strong in their posture. They both stood proudly overseeing Alfred and James’ progress around the table. They also both pretended not to eavesdrop.

Thomas was doing a far worse job than the butler, as he had to swallow a snigger when the Dowager Countess said something particularly scathing. In doing so, he tickled something in the back of his throat that sent him into a convulsion of wet, wracking coughs. The fit seemed to be doing its best to wrestle the very breath from him. So caught up in trying _not_ to die, Thomas didn’t notice the lull in conversation around the table as everyone stared at him. Nor did he see Carson turn an absolute fascinating shade of red, though had he had known he would have been sorry he missed it. In any case, the two men seemed to be sharing rapidly alarming complexions.

When he raggedly found his breath, he straightened his twisted posture and raised his tear soaked eyes to the room. He immediately wished the fit had killed him. The entire room was still, with each of its occupants staring agape at the flustered under-butler. Thomas gulped audibly and smiled thinly.

“Good God, Barrow. Are you alright?” Robert exclaimed. Had Thomas not been so embarrassed, he would have been warmed by Lord Grantham’s concern. He would have also relished the gob smacked expressions on each of the ladies’ faces.

“Yes, m’lord, thank you. I am so very sorry for the interruption,” Thomas croaked.

“Nonsense! That sounded extraordinarily painful. Are you ill?” Robert enquired, the answer to which all of those in attendance wanted to know.

“No, sir. It was just a tickle in my throat.” This excuse sounded flat even to Thomas’ ears, and he desperately wished everyone would just stop staring and get on with the evening.

“Lord Grantham,” Dear God, Doctor Clarkson was speaking now. No, this was spiralling towards the disastrous. 

“Would you allow me the time to examine Thomas after dinner?”

He turned to look at the now very flushed Thomas, with his expert eyes evaluating him. 

“The sound of that cough concerns me. I guarantee it is more than “just a tickle”.”

“Of course, doctor. As long as it is acceptable with Thomas here. I’m sure Carson can spare him for a moment tonight.” Robert’s suggestion booked no room for argument.

“Certainly, my lord,” Carson and Thomas echoed each other.

“Perfect. While the ladies withdraw to the sitting room, you can take a look at Thomas. Is that suitable, Richard?”

The doctor nodded his head as he said, “Yes, thank you.”

It was after the arrangements were made that the Dowager remarked it was a blessing that it was finally not one of the dinner guests or a member of the family who made such a spectacle for once. At that, the tension eased and everyone resumed their conversations.

Meanwhile, Thomas spent the rest of the service in a mortified daze, cursing himself for attracting such attention. A genuine fear of Dr. Clarkson’s examination was starting to brew deep within Thomas’ stomach without him understanding why.

 

Thomas now found himself sitting next to the doctor in the servant’s hall. Luckily due to the time of night, the room was empty save for Mr. Bates, who sat smirking behind a newspaper. Thomas would have bet good money the valet had already read it front to back several times before and was just sitting there to be nosy. There was, at least, a small mercy in that Miss O’Brien was missing despite having nothing to do as a lady’s maid during the final meal of the day. Thomas didn’t dare think of how she would spin this in her web of spite and lies.

Dr. Clarkson placed his medical bag atop the table before turning to the under-butler, which must have meant he brought that thing everywhere with him like a charm, the prat. Thomas was still eying the black satchel when the doctor spoke.

“Has that cough been ailing you for some time, Thomas?”

As Thomas took a breath to deflect the question, Mr. Bates gave a chuckle over in his corner.

Looking briefly towards the valet’s direction, the doctor continued, “Right. Could you please remove your jacket and vest and un-tuck your shirt, Thomas? I’ll be listening to your chest now.”

The under-butler did as told and contained a gasp when he felt the cold stethoscope against the bare skin of his back. He drew and held great breaths as the doctor instructed, while the doctor in turn concentrated on the sounds issuing from Thomas’ chest. Richard was dismayed to hear an obvious crackling produced on every other inhale.

The doctor removed his hand from underneath Thomas’ shirt and told him he could put his suit jacket and vest back on before he began his examination of Thomas’ eyes, throat, and lymph nodes. He also began to start questioning the younger man in earnest. 

“Have you been experiencing any chest pain recently?” Thomas shook his head.

“Have you experienced any shortness of breath? Wheezing?” Here Thomas paused for a moment and questioned the value of telling the truth. He chose to admit to those symptoms.

“And when you cough, do you bring up any sputum, or blood?” The mention of blood alarmed Thomas despite having not found it in any of her handkerchiefs when he spat up. He did, on the other hand, admit to coughing up mucus.

Once again Dr. Clarkson reached into his medical bag and pulled out a thermometer. 

“I don’t think you have a fever, but I would like to be completely sure,” he said as he placed the device into Thomas’ mouth. “Have any of these symptoms woken you up in the night in a cold sweat?” Thomas shook his head.

“I believe you’re suffering from some kind of respiratory infection – most likely bronchitis. Bronchitis occurs when there is an inflammation in the bronchial tubes – or the breathing tubes – that connect your throat to your lungs,” he altered his language when Thomas narrowed his eyes.

Richard continued evenly, “When these tubes swell, they secrete a fluid, which is what I heard crackling when I listened to your breathing. The swelling would also make it harder to breathe and cause your wheezing and shortness of breath.”

The doctor removed the thermometer from Thomas’ mouth and looked at the mercury briefly.

“Elevated, but not altogether unusual,” he reported. “Usually a respiratory-tract infection is accompanied with nasal congestion as well, so don’t be alarmed if these symptoms arise later on.”

Thomas cleared his throat and asked, “So, what does this mean exactly?” His own brief medical training focused more on warfare triage, so he was ignorant of infections and their prognosis.

“Well, since I think we caught this relatively early on, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about any long-term damage. Bronchitis can be a progressive illness. Had this become a chronic infection, your symptoms would have increased over time until your airways were so narrow that your lungs would struggle to process the air you took in to oxygenate the blood.” Thomas was vaguely familiar with this process of the body.

“It may also have damaged the alveoli and lesson their capacity, or it could have developed into something even more serious, such as emphysema. In either case, left untreated you probably would have experienced respiratory failure.”

At Thomas’ look of distress, Richard asserted, “But that won’t be the case, I assure you. As I said, we caught it early enough.”

Thomas was annoyed that he was informed of the worst case scenario before being told that it didn’t actually apply to him. He didn’t want to die. Especially not by a wheezing that Daisy of all people warned him of. He would never live it down.

“I’m sorry if I’ve alarmed you, Thomas, but I just wanted to impart on you the severity of what your infection can become if left untreated. With just a bit of bed rest, a regiment of herbal tonics, and a few changes to your routine, I think you’ll be back to being perfectly healthy within a week.” Dr. Clarkson smiled as he concluded his prediction.

“I will write you a prescription for potassium nitrate, but in the meantime, if you wanted you could apply a small dose of clove oil to the skin of your chest, or make a tea of cinnamon and honey.” The doctor began to pile his instruments back into his bag.

“I suggest you go to your room to rest for the remainder of the evening, and stay abed tomorrow as well. It’s really up to you and Lord Grantham how much time you can miss if you care to rest any longer than that, but I recommend taking it easy in your duties for the next week.”

He took a hold of his satchel and instructed, “Of course remember to keep drinking fluids and get plenty of fresh air.”

He turned to go and was almost out the door when he stopped to turn around, “Oh– Only– I remember from the war, you used to smoke? You’re not still in the habit, are you, Thomas?”

Thomas mutely nodded his head, his quick mind already making connections that were making him uncomfortable.

A deep frown creased Richard’s forehead and he returned to the table. He said firmly, “In no uncertain terms are you to continue smoking. How ever many years of inhaling that smoke most probably damaged your airways and made you more susceptible to this infection. To carry on would be dangerous to your health, and those grim predictions I spoke of earlier would more than likely come to pass.”

“I’ve even begun to read reports from America that link smoking to lung cancer; Prolonged smoking, coupled with your infection, could very well lead to arrhythmia and even cardiac arrest, in addition to cancer of the lung.” 

Drawing himself up to leave again, the doctor continued, “I’m sorry, Thomas but you’ll have stop smoking from here on in. You may feel a little ill for the first day or so after stopping but it’s unavoidable. Try a liquorice or a chamomile tea if you feel particularly out of sorts.”

Thomas felt absolutely gutted. He didn’t even savour that last cigarette he had before the dinner service. In fact, he remembered that he threw it to the ground with at least one hearty puff left in it. And he still had a pack of at least seven begging to be smoked.

The doctor hung back at the door and stated, “I suggest the next time you experience any discomfort, please do send for me rather than making a spectacle of yourself at dinner. I’ll inform Lord Grantham of your diagnosis.”

Thomas mentally suggested that the good doctor go take a long walk off a short pier, but managed to utter a quick thanks out loud before the doctor left the servants’ quarters. He sat there for a moment with his shirt and vest still in disarray underneath his jacket. Thomas felt just as jumbled as his clothing surely looked. A heavy dread settled over him when he thought about the pack of smokes sitting in his jacket pocket, burning a hole straight through to his heart.

“Doctor’s orders, eh?” Mr. Bates said with a smile.

And the night just got worse.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas tries to deal with Doctor Clarkson's diagnosis. He finds he isn't quite prepared to manage the days without his smokes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A kind reader has mentioned how the association between cancer and smoking wouldn't have been prevelant in society at the time of this story. In my brief research, there had been some rumblings within anti-tobacco socities and medical circles that sought to prove cigarettes were in fact harmful at that time, but most of these groups directed their focus on juvenile smoking. They also conflated a lot of real physical consequences (like cancer) with weird ones (like moral and mental "inefficencies") that ultimately made a lot of people disregard their work. 
> 
> So, chances were Dr. Clarkson, as country doctor, would not have had the astuteness to have read and agreed with these anti-tobacco societies. More than likely, the average person wouldn't know any of the diseases linked to smoking, but they might have known it wasn't the greatest thing in the world. I'd like to imagine people would have connected the health problems of the pea soup industrialised London with the smoke inhaled by cigarettes... but, who knows!
> 
> Therefore, just so ya know, this story lives in a slight AU world of a slightly more intelligent physicians. This disclaimer now contractually allows me to put in tvs and flying saucers.
> 
> The treatments Thomas uses for his bronchitis, and the teas for his withdrawl, were all real techniques used at the time.

_The one where Thomas smokes all of his remaining cigarettes and promptly loses his mind._

To say that Thomas was beside himself would be an understatement that would make all the other understatements look like no-good underachievers. After Dr. Clarkson left, Thomas almost immediately fled to his room and sat himself on his bed, unsure of what to do. Since it was barely approaching nine, he was sitting idle when ordinarily he would still have an additional three hours left to work. To be honest, Thomas was shocked to find that he didn’t enjoy the reprieve.

He supposed it could be blamed on the awkward events of the evening and the knowledge that Carson would soon pay him a visit. He acknowledged, however, it was mostly due to his impression of Mr. Bates as he was examined by the doctor. It was true that they were getting along more than ever before. The older man had earned Thomas’ respect when he helped to conspire against O’Brien to get Thomas his job back. Considering just how poorly Thomas treated the valet when he first arrived, it was a marvel he could find it in his heart to help Thomas. The under-butler would be forever grateful for his mercy, but at the same time, there was a tiny part of Thomas, hidden deep within, that resented the compassion Bates exuded. Thomas’ only comfort was that he was at least self-aware enough to know it was bred from jealousy and not a malignant character; he could just never be that kind-hearted if he tried. Not that he would ever tell Bates that.

Of course, Thomas would never apologise for how he treated the valet, but he had begun a rapport with the older man that served as good as one. He was even willing to say it had passed beyond mere toleration of one another and strayed dangerously close to what one might call a friendship. It was how Thomas learned to appreciate Bates’ dry humour, and why he so quickly left the hall for the privacy of his room; even though Thomas knew Bates would mean no harm in teasing him, he didn’t want to face the wry ribbing from a friendly face. He also knew that he could expect very much the same and worse from most of the other servants. For a while, he would steal himself from their mockery by staying in his room, boredom be damned.

For the moment, Thomas felt like a wally and was ready to smack himself for not recognising his symptoms for what they were. It was truly ignorant and wishful thinking to believe his coughs were innocent. Now that he was sitting there, he felt the fatigue of the past few weeks catch up with him. He didn’t feel like death warmed over, but it was a close comparison. Aches and pains – and a general weariness – escaped from wherever he had kept them buried for so long, and he sunk further into the mattress. Thomas wasn’t sure where he found the energy to lift himself from his bed and change for bed, but he managed it.

He even had the resources to hang and put away his clothes properly, though he rapidly grew to regret it. As he was handling his suit jacket, he felt the mass of his cigarette carton hiding in his breast pocket. He should have just left his clothes to wrinkle on the floor and got them ironed in the morning. It served that scullery maid right anyways. And no one could begrudge an ill man anything. It was bad manners.

Before he knew it, the rumpled pack of cigarettes was in his hand and the scullery maid was completely out of his mind. It would be easy to smoke the rest that night. Seven measly cigarettes over a few hours before Carson would be calling would be like child’s play, though he distinctly remembered a lack of smoking in any of his childhood games; rather, his father thought of smoking as a man’s pursuit and threatened Thomas and his brother with violence whenever they were found smoking while playing and vice versa. In any case, it would be simple to finish off the pack before committing himself to abstinence.

It would get it out of his system so he could start fresh.

And he would technically be saving money by not wasting the remainder of the pack.

No one would even know that he was going against doctor’s orders by the time he finished.

It was not like anyone kept count of his cigarettes. Not even O’Brien was that nosy.

He decided that polishing off the pack would be the best choice. In no way could seven additional cigarettes cause any more harm than the untold thousands he had already smoked over his life time. Dr. Clarkson was only human and had been known to make mistakes. Thomas tried not to think bitterly back to the preventable death of Edward Courtenay but failed.

Out of sheer spite, Thomas ripped open the packet and arranged the seven cigarettes onto his desk in a row. His fingers ghosted over top of the line before choosing one and shoving it into his mouth. He managed to wedge open one of his windows before he swiftly set alight to the cigarette between his lips.

He smoked it down to a nub after only three deep draws, and turned to grab another. That too disappeared faster than most.

He took care to savour the third one, in all of its phases. Unlit, its slim cylindrical body laid in his hand unmarred and white. Its smell was sweet and inviting against his palm. And once lit, Thomas watched the tip burn through the shaft, staring at the way the embers burned bright red at every drag. He noted the way the sweet smell of dry tobacco transformed into the headier, acrid odour of smoke as it drifted in an elegant plume before him. Thomas watched as it coiled along the air current created by the open window. He set to memorise the way the muscles in his lips and chest worked when he pulled at the cigarette, and relished the intake of smoke as its heat passed the back of his tongue and scorched his throat.

Oddly enough, his lungs hadn’t given him any more trouble then usual and he imagined them filled with the swirling smoke. In fact, he hadn’t even coughed once since endeavouring to smoke himself out. Thomas sneered at the thought of Dr. Clarkson in the servants’ hall and felt giddy for defying the doctor’s orders.

By the time he had lit and finished his fourth cigarette, the room had filled noticeably with smoke. It reminded him of the way the smoke clung in the roofed dugouts of the trenches. At night, when both sides miraculously ceased fighting, he would sit miserable amongst the muck and light up. Sometimes he would be by himself; other times, he would be joined by other men, and they would appreciate one of their last few pleasures at the front together. Thomas would look through the haze and meet the other soldier’s or medic’s eyes and see that they shared the same fears. Not always were they inclined to speak, but when they did, they never spoke of the terror they felt. Alone in his room, miles away from those trenches, Thomas played with his lighter. He watched the flame flick on and off and thought of the scar still angry red against his pale skin. He wondered if some of those men had made it back with scars of their own.

He turned to his desk and stared at the remaining three cigarettes. By now he had begun to feel the buzz of the nicotine and felt disconnected from his situation, as if almost ready to float. His ailing chest had finally begun to complain against the abuse it had sustained in such a short amount of time, and he strained against the coughs that were building. His throat felt thick and alien to him, but Thomas couldn’t stop.

Placing another cigarette between his lips, he grasped the final two and laid himself out on his bed. Once lying down, he placed the two sticks on his chest and lit the other in his mouth. In this position, it felt as though a weight had been placed on his chest, which caused him to hack violently and occasionally spit into his handkerchief. He still, however, managed to smoke in between bouts of coughing. For the sixth cigarette – or second last, the idea of _last_ weighing heavily on his mind – Thomas was content to treat it like a lover. The smoke would sporadically singe his eyes and the under-butler had to blink rapidly against the tears. He also had to be careful about dropping ash, but after only one mishap, he learned how long he could leave it before it needed to be flicked.

Eventually, he had to close his eyes, partly due to sheer exhaustion. He also felt a headache coming on and cursed his own stupidity. Without a doubt, Thomas felt worse than when he started. His chest burned as if the lungs were seared and someone or something was squeezing them. And now he only had one cigarette left.

He took a moment to look at the offending cigarette, trying to convince himself that it was the _final_ one.

Ever.

For the rest of his life.

Until he died.

Maybe.

He smoked it as if it were any other cigarette he would have enjoyed after a meal or in between tasks. He thought it ironic that he felt about as ill now as he did when he smoked his first cigarette all those years ago, hiding amongst the ticking clocks in his father’s shop. This time around, though, he was a much more self-pitying and morose lump.

And then he was done. Thomas wasn’t sure if he should crack a grin or start to cry that it was over, so instead he chose to stare at the ceiling. His body was still reeling from the punch of nicotine he had inhaled through infected lungs in mere minutes, if his sense of time was reliable. Soon enough, Thomas let his eyelids droop close and he laid there feeling the slight spinning sensation that had begun after the sixth smoke. Before he even realised, he was asleep.

Thomas woke up to someone nudging his shoulder gently. His mouth was as dry as a desert and it felt like someone had come along and replaced his tongue with a piece of bark. He wondered idly if he had slept the night through with his mouth open. The taste and smell of tobacco were cloying. When he opened his eyes, they were dry and gritty.

Mr. Carson towered over him, and a single oil lamp cast his shadow across the room onto the wall. Thomas luckily had the wherewithal to contain a yelp of surprise. While he tried to slow his heartbeat, he propped himself up against his headboard and looked at the butler in what he hoped was very expertly masked trepidation. To his surprise, the butler didn’t seem as angry as Thomas had expected he would have been once Dr. Clarkson had relayed the news. In fact, a shadow of worry flitted across the older man’s face. It could just have been the lighting.

“Mr. Barrow,” he began, “Dr. Clarkson has informed me of your situation, and both his Lordship and I have agreed to suspend your duties for the next two days in place of bed rest.”

“Thank you sir,” Thomas tried to say. What came out of his mouth, however, was a mess of tortured consonants and guttural sounds that didn’t belong to English.

Carson’s bushy eyebrows knitted together. “Yes, well, after that we’ll see how you feel, but I assured his Lordship you will be able to resume work when the time comes.”

“Dr. Clarkson has passed on his scripts for your treatment, and I will be sending someone to the chemist tomorrow morning to retrieve what you need. Lord Grantham has offered to pay for whatever medicine the doctor suggests.”

Thomas felt immense gratitude towards an employer to whom he already owed so much.

“We will manage the services without you until you recover,” The butler sniffed.

For a brief moment Thomas froze and hoped that it wasn’t noticeable that he had smoked himself into a frenzy like a petulant child. He then felt a cool wind blowing in from the window he had left opened and assumed the pungent smell of smoke had seeped out of his room. The pile of butts in his ashtray and the destroyed packet on his desk were another story. Thomas attempted to look coy.

Carson moved towards the window and pulled it shut. He then turned to Thomas and said, “Perhaps you would feel more comfortable _under_ the covers, Thomas.”

Thomas realised how he was prostrated somewhat akimbo on top of his blankets and moved to smooth out his pyjamas.

“I’ll have one of the boys bring you your breakfast tomorrow morning so you needn’t worry about attending.” The butler spoke as moved he towards the door. “If there isn’t anything else, I will wish you a goodnight.”

Thomas cleared his throat before speaking. “No, Mr. Carson. Thank you.” He was pleased to hear it sounded mostly normal, if significantly more croaky than usual. “And I’d like to apologise for tonight at dinner.”

That seemed to please the butler. “It was rather unexpected and vulgar, but I will see to it that his Lordship hears of these sentiments.” With a small smile, he bid the under-butler a goodnight and left.

Thomas lifted the sheets and fell into bed. Once again, sleep found him swiftly.

Quick to arrive, however, did not mean consistent. More often than not Thomas found himself waking for no reason. In the numerous interims between sleep, the under-butler alternated between staring out of the window and coughing himself hoarse. By the time the sun had rose, he was in a foul mood. A dull ache drummed behind his eyes, making it hard to concentrate on the words in his book and leaving him with little else to do.

When the hallboy arrived, he instantly noticed the under-butler’s stormy disposition. He barely placed the tray of breakfast down on Thomas’ desk before he scurried out of the door without a word. Not that Thomas minded any, if he noticed at all. Who was that kid to him anyways?

Seriously, though, he wasn’t sure if he had ever seen that hallboy before in his life.

He focused instead on his food and realised he didn’t have an appetite. In fact, the bowl of porridge looked as appetising as the mucus that he had been expelling all through the night. With a sigh, he took his tea and newspaper from the tray before pushing it aside. Back on his bed, he attempted to enjoy both his tea and read the newspaper, but found he could do neither. His headache had developed into a full-blown pounding that matched his heartbeat to such an extent that he was convinced the bed was rocking in time to its thudding. He discovered the newspaper didn’t impart the day’s news efficiently when he read the same sentence over and over. His tea, as well, was unpleasurable as it just made him want a smoke. It was usually around breakfast that Thomas would have his first of the day.

With little else to do, Thomas lazed about in bed and tried to catch up on his sleep, which proved to be a failed venture due to his restlessness and illness. Thomas’s moods went from tired to bored to grouchy to sulky to enraged and then back to bored before restarting the cycle, all the while he forcefully tossed and turned his body between the sheets. He resorted to attempting to suffocate himself with his pillow when the hallboy returned with a lunch try. The hallboy blinked wordlessly at his superior, and then he was out of the room with Thomas’ untouched breakfast in hand.

By then, Thomas’ stomach was so empty that it began to exact its revenge with nauseating hunger pangs. However, he found that he could only pick at what was given to him, and he glowered and coughed into his tea for a long while. His thoughts of course dwelled on the fact that he had no cigarettes left. He cursed himself for smoking them all the night before instead of rationing them out carefully over a few days before he realised, stupidly, he wasn’t to be smoking, full stop, and that the previous night was technically a heinous transgression.

His heart dropped a little lower with that thought, and it was the leaden self-pity that finally caused him to fall asleep.

Once again, Thomas was roused by a hand to his shoulder. He let out a sound that was something between a whimper and growl, as he had just gotten to sleep. He opened his eyes to tear into the person who dared to disturb his slumber, but the words died in his throat when he realised it was Mrs. Hughes.

Quickly, Thomas found himself growing confused and a little bit scandalised. What was Mrs. Hughes – a woman – doing in his room, in the men’s quarters? He knew she was the head housekeeper but there were still rules of decency. Instantly, Thomas felt sick when he realised how closely the voice inside his head sounded like Mr. Carson. He quickly blamed it on his lack of sleep.

Mrs. Hughes wore a sympathetic smile, “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Barrow. How are you feeling? You look a bit ghostly.”

“‘m fine,” Thomas mumbled as he pushed himself against the head board and made himself somewhat presentable. He was conscious of the fact that his hair would be sticking every which way and that he would be sporting a day’s worth of stubble.

“I know this is a little unusual me being here,” she divulged, “but I had planned to go into town today and so I was able to pick up your medicines.”

Thomas realised then that she held a paper bag, doubtlessly full of tonics suggested by the doctor.

The head-housekeeper turned towards his desk and started to unload several brown tinctures and a ceramic vapouriser.

“The chemist said that you are to mix these,” she held a loft two bottles, “with boiling water in the inhaler. You’re supposed to inhale the steam directly twice a day for a few minutes each time.”

Mrs. Hughes then picked up another vial, and instructed, “This is clove oil. He said you can apply it directly to your chest, or you can put a small drop at the back of your mouth.” 

She looked at him squarely and warned, “But don’t over do it with this one. The chemist said you should only use just one drop once a day.”

“And finally,” she said with a deep breath, “we have liquorice and chamomile to make tea with. I’ll give these to the girls in the kitchen and they can make it up for you at meal times. They know to add plenty of cinnamon and honey to your tea as well.”

Thomas felt a little daunted at the sheer quantity of things that sat on his desk. It must have shown on his face, as Mrs. Hughes added with a smile, “Don’t worry, they all have their instructions written down.”

She made a point of looking at his ashtray. “I’ve also heard about Dr. Clarkson’s strict orders. I’d be lying if I said I was sorry to see that go. It’s a nasty habit.”

Thomas bristled at that, having had his fill of criticism for his habit. Everyone acted as if it was their lungs he was abusing, which was a ridiculous thought. Nevertheless, he thought it was sensible to thank Mrs. Hughes for collecting his medicines.

She suggested that he get some rest and reminded him that someone would soon be in with his supper.

After the head-housekeeper left, Thomas tried to fall back asleep but was unsuccessful. Disheartened, Thomas instead concentrated his efforts on cleaning himself up and dressing in a loose casual tunic. His restless energy had come to a peak and it felt like his legs were crawling with bugs. Thomas would rather go out and brave the servant’s hall then spend another minute bored, antsy, and alone in his room.

To say that was a poor decision wasn’t necessarily incorrect. Miraculously, Mr. Carson allowed the under-butler to sit with the rest of the servants after only a brief hesitation. The butler must have warned that no one was to bother Mr. Barrow about his illness, for everyone obeyed these orders and supper was spent discussing small talk. Thomas made note to work on deepening his voice in the future, as it seemed the best medium for issuing orders people actually followed.

During the supper, he didn’t interject often but he appreciated hearing the idle chatter of the others despite the pain in his head and chest. He even managed to eat a portion of his meal before the others withdrew to resume their duties.

The under-butler moved to return to his room. As Thomas stood a wave of dizziness hit him unexpectedly and his vision quickly narrowed until it was blurry and dark. Luckily, he managed to plant a palm against the table to take the brunt of his weight. He tightly scrunched his eyes as he rode out the sensation. His skin prickled with sweat as he felt the blood rush to his head.

“Thomas! Are you alright?” Strong arms grasped his shoulders and he couldn’t help but lean against them.

When he was able to open his eyes and blink back flashes of black spots, he became aware of several things at once. Firstly, he was panting quite erratically and his chest protested against his gasps. Secondly, his body was icy hot and shivering weakly. And thirdly, he had all but swooned into the arms of Ivy.

“I’ve got it!” He spat and hastily removed himself from her arms. Had he been aware of anything other than his own embarrassment he would have seen Ivy’s eyes widen in surprise.

Thomas lurched from the hall and made his unco-ordinated way back to his room.

“That boy will rage against a kind world just for the sake of raging,” Mrs. Patmore consoled Ivy as they watched him leave. “Now get away with these dishes before I decide to use them against your head to make music.”

When Thomas arrived at his room – barely in one piece – he was exhausted and flopped down on his desk chair. He lamented that Ivy, of all people, witnessed his bout of extreme dizziness. Part of his distress stemmed from the strength behind her grip. For such a small girl she had an unusually sturdy disposition, and surely the breadth of her hands could have matched his own.

He eyed the array of medicine he was expected to take and groaned in frustration. In order to use the compounds necessary for his inhaler, he would have to return to the kitchen to boil some water. After his near-fainting episode, Thomas decided they could wait until the next morning. The bottles, marked with strange names, didn’t promote comfort; rather, the ephedrine compound and potassium nitrate seemed worryingly menacing when he read some of the warnings on the labels.

Instead, he turned to the clove oil. It was harmless enough, if its distinct lack of warnings was anything to go by. As directed, he applied a single droplet to the back of his tongue. Its flavour was so strong and cloying it had coated his entire mouth in a second and hit his gag reflex. He fought against the urge to vomit but even so, he retched, which in turn set off a violent bout of coughing.

He dragged a shaky hand against his mouth as he gagged a final time. The taste lingered still and Thomas considered drinking from his basin water he used earlier to wash. He pushed the oil away from him and vowed never to taste it again.

Too tired to be furious, Thomas laid down in resignation. He strongly thought a cigarette would cut the taste and burn off the persistent oil. Of course, that thought set a precedent for others, and before he knew it he was pining for a smoke, nostalgic for the past – including even the time when a scullery maid deemed it appropriate to touch him. At least then he had a fag in hand and was free to do as he pleased. He idly wondered if any of his butts still had salvageable sections. Thomas forcibly shook himself from those idiotic thoughts, as he was reminded of the contemptible men who would debase themselves and smoke other people’s butts back in his home town. Besides, on closer inspection, he had done a pretty good job of smoking all of them to their complete end. He swore to remove the butts the next day and devoted himself to sleep.

That night expired much like the last. If anything, Thomas was awake more often because his sinuses slowly clogged with congestion over the course of the night. The added pressure in his head and ears, coupled with a drip that aggravated his chest, kept him up. Therefore, the under-butler greeted the sun with a rage that should have sent it screaming back towards the horizon, but it was a professional and had a job to do.

He had run through his stockpile of handkerchiefs by the time the hallboy arrived with his breakfast. News of his fainting spell must have reached Carson, who deemed him inappropriate company for the other servants. That suited Thomas fine, as evidence of his second sleepless night was obvious. It took its toll in large dark circles underneath his bloodshot eyes. His skin had also taken on a sallow hue that didn’t complement the dark stubble he grew over night.

The porridge he spied on the tray sent his stomach churning. He managed, however, to down the sickly sweet, honey infused tea that sat next to the bowl.

He noticed his vapouriser and the medicine he needed to take. Despite feeling like composted rubbish, he was able to force himself out of bed and sneak into the kitchen to boil a small amount of water. Thomas thanked the Gods he had adopted earlier that Ivy nor Daisy were present. Only Mrs. Patmore observed his actions and she wisely chose to give him a wide berth. Back in his room, the administration of the vapour went surprisingly smoothly compared to the clove oil and actually managed to clear up a large portion of his congestion.

Quickly, he found himself dosed and without anything to do as his suffering increased. To combat his boredom, he attempted to write letters to acquaintances in other households, but when he alternated between sitting with his eyes closed and spelling things wrong, he abandoned the effort and returned to bed.

Thomas felt as though a dense fog had descended upon him, clouding his thinking and slowing his movements. He nearly left the bed to retrieve water for his vapouriser before he vaguely remembered he had already done so earlier. The dizziness and nausea of the previous day had returned and left him reeling. He felt weak and resorted to clenching his hands between his thighs in an effort to stop them from shaking.

Much of the morning was subsequently spent lying cocooned in his blankets craving cigarettes. Had the hallboy returned and offered him just a single cigarette in return for trading their positions at Downton, Thomas would have gladly agreed in less than an instant; if Carson offered a cigarette in return for a night of loud and unpleasantly slick sex, Thomas would have accepted without barter. Hell, he would have suggested to include both footmen and let Mrs. Hughes watch and grade their activities if he was to be rewarded with a whole pack.

 _A whole pack_. The thought was overwhelming.

He wasn’t sure if it was the graphic mental pictures that line of thinking elicited or if it was the cravings alone that sent him biting his lips, but they were soon raw and breaking. A painful ball of anxiety sat in his chest as his thoughts obsessed about cigarettes and the down right, abased _Need_ that completely consumed him. Each beat of his heart pulsated with an urgent longing and sent aching tremors of desire ever stronger throughout his body. 

He began to contrive ways to excuse his presence in the women’s quarters so he could break into O’Brien’s room. He knew she kept her pack in her room, as a lady’s maid couldn’t be caught with it on her person while attending her lady. His plans went from expertly engineered espionage to brutishly kicking down her down and ripping apart her room until he found them.

Or he imagined he could escape from Downton and rent a room at the nearest inn. In town, he could buy as many cartons as he could get his hands on – enough to last days. Then, he would work methodically to seal the rented room, allowing no pathways for air to flow in or out. Thomas would coil the bedclothes in the space between the door and the floor, and he would ensure the windows were all shut and tightly locked. Only after the room was absolutely secure, he would commence smoking, endlessly lighting fag after fag until the room grew soupy and eventually opaque. He would absorb the smoke through his skin and eyes and hair, all the while he would suck incessantly on cigarettes until he physically could not bring his hand to his mouth. Until his body was suitably dehydrated and scorched from the smoke. Until his eyes were blind and incapable of tearing in reaction to the haze. Until his lungs had their fill and couldn’t expand.

And then he would die happy, and the innkeepers would eventually break down his door and find his body embalmed in the ash. They would send word to Downton, and everyone there would say, “aye, it was the way he wanted to go”. No one would cry at his funeral, but they would bury him with a pack in his pocket and his lighter in his hand. And he would become a sad story to be told to the newer staff hired at Downton, and with every drag Miss O’Brien took, she would think of him.

Thomas found these fantasies to be disturbing but he couldn’t slow his racing mind. If anything, they only heightened his desperate suffering.

A silver lining to this whole affair could be that Thomas completely forgot about the bronchitis.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas continues to suffer through withdrawls. With a few exceptions, the staff share the brunt of his frustrations as he starts to reinsert himself into his daily activities.

_The one where Thomas deals with his cravings as best as he knows how and generally acts like a tit._

Fevered and desperate thoughts dogged Thomas for the remainder of the day. His body and mind felt like they were playing a horrifying game of tug-of-war, and something was going to snap in the near future. Nothing seemed to quell the cravings ravishing his body. They just kept surging in ever intensifying waves that exhausted his flesh and deteriorated his emotional reserves. To make things worse, he continued to cough.

He knew he was perilously close to losing what little control he had remaining and felt a crest of hysteria building in the prickling behind his eyes and the anxious mass in his chest. Biting his lips and grinding his teeth against the cravings weren’t successful coping strategies. Nor were they successful in expelling the nervous energy that was developing. Each of his nerves seemed to be on fire.

He considered masturbating to distract himself in theory, but after the first three times he brought himself off he doubted its effectiveness in practice. For the briefest moment each time he came, Thomas would feel restorative molten pleasure erupt and a clarity of mind would settle upon him; however, it would only ever last a few seconds. And then he would be left post-wank shamed and restless for spending considerable time during the day in his room absent from work masturbating furiously, while the others were labouring. There was also an increasing paranoia that someone would walk in on him with his dick literally in his hand.

With that avenue abandoned, Thomas was eager to find something else to occupy his time and mind. Despite the haze that continued to blur his thinking, the under-butler recognised the need to occupy both his hands and his mouth. He looked to the lunch tray deposited by the hallboy earlier and was surprised to discover he was starving. He was also pleased to find someone had prepared for him a full teapot’s worth of tea. He gorged himself on the meagre pieces of dry meat and vegetables reserved for him while pacing the length of his room. The tea – liquorice he could taste – went in rapid gulps despite its heat. Both disappeared before he was satiated. 

After ingesting all that was given to him, he realised the desire to smoke had lessened slightly – enough to make him reconsider mass-murdering everyone in Downton for being healthy and happy in their ignorance of his distress. His mind was still slow with illness and need, so he associated this weakening of desire to the physical act of taking in something to his body from hand to mouth. Perhaps if Thomas had been thinking clearly, he would have connected his improved outlook to the nourishment of the first real meal he ate in two days.

Having cleared his plate and cup, he searched for substitutions and came up with little. In desperation, he grabbed his toothbrush and toothpaste and started to aggressively brush his teeth.

And again.

And again.

He stared dazedly out of his window while he dragged the brush against his teeth. The repetitive back and forth motion relaxed him into a trance. It wasn’t until the burning of the paste’s soapy chemicals began to inflame his gums and tongue did Thomas stop to rinse his mouth out for the last time. Still, he felt marginally better from when he ate.

By then, the worst of the cravings had passed. When Thomas inspected his pocket watch, he noticed the day was mostly spent, and the servant’s supper was soon approaching. Even though he still felt weak and unwell, he decided getting out of his room would improve his mood. Escaping the small confines of his bedroom would allow him to burn off some of the restless energy he still had pent up. It would also be an opportunity to weasel out of Mrs. Patmore the most amount of food for supper. 

The under-butler did his best to clean himself up and dressed in a fresh shirt; however, there was only so much he could do for his pallor and bloodshot eyes. He licked his cracked lips and hoped no one would notice. 

With considerable amount of time left before supper began, he went out to the kitchen to fetch more boiling water for his vapouriser. He gladly ignored the bustle of the kitchen maids while he waited for the water to steam, and they were equally as happy (busy) to ignore him as long as he stayed out of their way. On return to his room, he mixed his medicines together and poured them into the ceramic container. If he inhaled the medicated steam for longer, more frequent breaths, he didn’t do it consciously. It wasn’t until the water became tepid that he realised he was simulating the action of smoking despite how awkward the spout of the inhaler was. Feeling satisfied though oddly like he had cheated, he stopped drawing in the vapours. His lungs felt relatively fine as they weren’t as congested as before; it was just the muscles of his chest that felt abused from the action of coughing.

He left for the dining hall, and he pledged not to pass out or fall into anyone’s arms as he walked.

The majority of the servants had already reached the dining table when Thomas arrived, and he contained a wince when everyone paused to stare at him when he hesitated at the door. It was obvious to the others he was unwell, as the dark circles beneath his eyes and bright red lips stood in stark contrast to his pale skin. To the more observant of the group, they also noticed how his hands clenched and unclenched nervously. In spite of their concentrated attention, the under-butler made a point to straighten his back and coolly regard the others.

“Mr. Barrow,” Carson said in surprise, “we weren’t expecting you to join us tonight.”

As he made his way to his seat, he replied, “Yes, well, one can’t wile away the day in one’s room.” He tried desperately not to think about masturbation.

“But you’re to be resting,” Mrs. Hughes exclaimed, “so you have your strength for when you return to your duties.”

As much as he appreciated her concern – which at this point in the day was very little – he couldn’t help but shortly snap, “I’ll be fine.” 

The other servants avidly watched the exchange between the three, and they all but ate up Mrs. Hughes’ somewhat affronted expression. 

“In fact, Mr. Carson, I should like to get back to my duties tomorrow as we agreed.” He didn’t mean that all, and wondered if he had become delirious since leaving his room? In truth, it was a terrible idea; it would be a wonder if he could remember how to get upstairs.

The butler seemed to consider it while Mrs. Hughes tried and failed to catch his eye. He replied, “I can only say, if you feel as though you are well enough, I don’t see why not; His Lordship would be most pleased to see you back upstairs.”

Thomas supposed it would get him out of his dull bedroom, and it would be well to start earning wages again. Fortunately for the under-butler, Mrs. Hughes didn’t contest Carson’s decision and the matter seemed to be closed.

As the plates were being served, Anna asked Thomas how he was feeling.

He dared to speak truthfully, with an eye on the more questionable servants. “Like flattened rubbish,” he admitted with a rueful smile, “but it seems to be on the mend.”

Miss O’Brien harrumphed, igniting his frayed nerves and riling his ire. He may renege on his resolution not to kill anyone at Downton, starting and ending with the lady’s maid. Of course, he would make it look like an accident. And if her room was suspiciously absent of cigarettes, Thomas would use Dr. Clarkson’s diagnosis as an alibi.

Anna shot the other woman a look that spoke volumes. “Well I think you’re looking better.”

Thomas knew she was lying to be nice, so he focused on his plate to ignore the situation altogether. It was typical fare, but he ploughed through it quickly as if it was ambrosia. His hunger was still voracious. To Mrs. Patmore’s astonishment he enquired if there were any extra portions remaining to form a second helping, citing her culinary gift as his reasoning when pressed. She cast a dubious look his way before huffing off into the kitchen. Shock coloured most faces around the table when she returned with his plate full; Thomas beamed.

The whole affair was slightly unsettling for the others. Mrs. Patmore and Thomas rarely interacted pleasantly with each other. If the staff didn’t know better, they would suspect the two were flirting. Alfred opened his mouth to question Thomas to set his world back to its proper axis.

“So how are you getting on without your cigarettes, Mr. Barrow?” At the thunderous look the under-butler directed towards him, he elaborated haltingly, “Only, you know, we heard you can’t smoke anymore.”

“Yes; doctor’s orders, after all,” Thomas echoed Mr. Bates’s jibe from the previous evening squarely. Inwardly, his was body was sent into flummox at the reminder. The cravings had sat as a low-lying buzz for the length of supper, but it now threatened to strengthen into a stomach-cramping, mind-fraying assault. He looked to his plate to find it empty, forgetting he ate so quickly, but he wasn’t full – he thought he would never be full. 

He noted that typically at this time he would be leaving the table for his evening fag before commencing his nightly duties. The itch to get up and do so materialised. Miss O’Brien would also usually be lighting hers in the courtyard at this time as well, but she just sat there calmly watching, evaluating. Which was easy enough for her, as she probably had enjoyed a smoke before supper. Thomas had never felt so jealous of the lady’s maid before in his life.

“Well I think it’s admirable,” Anna smiled, “We all do.”

Thomas saw Mr. Bates nod out of the corner of his eye. He liked to think it was done out of his own motivation and not something Anna had coerced him to do with her wifely ways.

“I think it’s great, Mr. Barrow,” Jimmy added, genuinely so. If Thomas was so constituted, he would have blushed. After so long focusing solely internally on his suffering, Thomas was reminded of the benefits of friendship.

“It’s dark enough down here without the gloom of the smoke.” He shared a kind smile.

A sudden irrational temper boiled hotly within the under-butler at those words. The relatively harmless comment coincided with the return of his cravings, and Thomas was at his wits end for annoyances, however small, for the day. As a result, he took the footman’s words far more personally than he would have normally. He internalised it as a condemnation of his character – that he was so terrible he even ruined the atmosphere of the dining hall.

Jimmy continued, ignorant of the storm brewing within the other man, “And I’m glad for your sake, so you can feel better!”

It was too late, however, to repair the damage his words had wrecked upon Thomas’ mood. He was stubbornly mired in irritation.

Now properly riled, Thomas was eager for supper to conclude. He wondered why he ever thought the two of them could ever be civil with one another, let alone be friends. Rather dramatically, he reflected that each and every one of the servants, himself included, were selfish and loathsome creatures. They were only forced together in this profession so they could scrape their meagre way through life. His whole body hummed with the desired to leave the dining hall and escape from the others and his depressing thoughts.

While the under-butler battled with his bad humour, the other servants abandoned the subject and began to talk about inconsequential gossip. They continued to chatter when Thomas began to tap his fingers of his right hand against the table. Slowly, its incessant pattern and volume grew more erratic and loud until it started to distract the staff from their conversations.

“Mr. Barrow,” Mr. Carson bellowed, effectively getting Thomas’ and everyone else’s attention.

At a slightly lower volume, he continued, “Must you endeavour to do that?” 

The address shook Thomas from his reveries; he had been completely unaware of his actions. The stress, anger, and cravings had found an unconscious outlet in the tapping. Suitably cowed, the under-butler apologised and placed his hand in lap and grasped it with his gloved hand.

It should have come to no surprise when, shortly after the talk resumed, Thomas’ nervous energy refocused itself in the bouncing of his leg up and down. His jiggling became so intense it reverberated through the wooden floor and into the table.

The servants looked to one another to find the source of the tremors. It was Mrs. Hughes who noticed that Thomas was oblivious to the effect his movements had. She placed her hand calmly on his wrist.

“You fidget more than a wee babe,” she said as a means to discourage him, yet a smile graced her lips as she caught his eye.

Carson inhaled deeply while sitting straighter in his chair. He blinked blandly at Thomas before he directed, “And that shall conclude tonight’s meal. You may all be excused.”

Thomas praised hallelujah and stood so quickly his chair vibrated in its place. The others had to hide their grins behind their hands.

While the others dispersed, Alfred and Jimmy hung back with Daisy and Ivy.

“I worry about him, you know,” Daisy said. Her earnest face radiated alarm.

“He certainly can be worrisome sometimes,” Ivy thought back to his nasty behaviour when she only lent a rather large helping hand. Needless to say she was much less concerned than Daisy and much less likely to catch him if he were to fall in her path again.

Alfred leaned in closer, “You know my room is next to his? Well, all last night I heard his bed springs creakin’.”

“I don’t think it’s ours to sa-,” Daisy started before she was interrupted by Jimmy.

“And I thought I heard him brushing his teeth for five minutes when I nipped in to change my shirt earlier this afternoon!” Jimmy seemed to remember himself, “Not that we should be gossiping and the like.”

Alfred rolled his eyes with a smile.

“He’s been nice!” He defended. At their dubious looks he amended, “Before this all started, you know… for him?”

“That’s ‘cause he likes you.”

“What do you think he’s been doing?” Ivy asked with a smirk.

“I can’t say I care to find out.” Jimmy admitted.

Alfred grinned, “Oh, I’m sure he’d be willing to show ya if you asked him nicely, Jimmy!”

Daisy and Ivy exchanged puzzled looks.

“And that,” Mr. Carson interrupted severely, “will be all from you four. The next time you think you are sure of something, Alfred, do keep it to yourself. Now, I believe there are settings still to be placed?”

 

Exiled to his room, Thomas passed the evening by dosing himself with his inhaler again. Though the written instructions left by Mrs. Hughes only directed twice daily dosages, he figured more couldn’t hurt; more medicine meant a speedier recovery. Besides, he found the medicated steam oddly comforting.

He again turned to his toothbrush when the cravings swelled. Thomas came to appreciate the irritation of the paste and brushing. It was a distraction from other less savoury thoughts that had obsessed him earlier. And, he thought bemusedly, he was preventing trench mouth – a revolting disease that he had seen often at the front but never treated; they had more pressing injuries to deal with.

Thomas was pleased to realise his cravings had diminished from the intensity of the morning. He was mostly certain he would refuse sexual liaisons with any of the staff in exchange for cigarettes. That wasn’t to say he was cured of his cravings – far from it. He had just gained a little self respect back.

Self-respect was well and good, but it did nothing to ease Thomas into sleep. He resigned himself to his growing insomnia and spent the night stressing over cigarettes and his return to work in the morning.

He arose from bed no better than when he retired. It felt as though his head and body existed in two different worlds. While his body was wired and trembling, his mind felt immobilised by fatigue. The under-butler performed his morning rituals in a daze. He figured he was to look haggard no matter what he did, so he didn’t pay any particular attention to his preparations. He only perked up during breakfast, where he consumed his porridge and tea so quickly he nearly chocked in his haste. Much to Mrs. Patmore’s pleasant surprise, of course. She had seen the porridge served, and she didn’t think it looked much better than pig slop most mornings. There was a reason why Ivy was only making porridge and not His Lordship’s meals. Still, the cook couldn’t begrudge a man an appetite or a meal.

The strong liquorice tea served to fortify Thomas, and it carried him through his tasks in the morning. He managed, albeit slowly, to complete the inventorial duties left to him by the butler. He appreciated that it gave him something with which to distract himself without any interaction with others. 

When his hands began to shake and his eyes to blur, he decided to retire to the servants’ quarters to make a honey-infused tea. When he arrived, Thomas didn’t notice Miss O’Brien sitting at the end of the table. If he had, he would have thought twice about the tea. As that was not the case, he decided to ignore her. 

“How’s the fag trade?” She asked, looking as if butter couldn’t melt in her mouth.

He couldn’t believe her gall. Nearly ten years of scheming together, and she still was capable of catching him by surprise.

“You are fully aware I should have none.” He did not admit that he, indeed, had none in his possession. “Don’t act coy, it doesn’t suit you.” 

“I was only asking if you wanted one on the sly-like,” she paused in her hem work, “I know what it’s like to not have a fag. The others don’t. I can give you one if you want, for old time’s sake.”

The speed in which his pupils dilated was almost painful. He could feel his blood had abandoned its usual routes and flooded towards his face. Thomas wanted to accept her offer so badly. The desire was so great he didn’t care that she could read that the raw need apparent on his face. He was too tired to play with masks today and chalked it up as point in her favour. If he could get his hands on one of her smokes, Thomas could forget the whole point system altogether. He licked his lips and prepared to grovel.

“And why would he want to do that, Miss O’Brien?” Mr. Bates appeared at the doorway, leaning heavily on his cane.

“I was only being friendly, Mr. Bates. Pardon me for living.” Seeing as her damage was already wreaked, she withdrew from the dining hall.

As she walked away, taking any chance of her sharing her pack with her, Thomas thought he understood what it must have been like for Tantalus. It ached down to his balls. He figured her lot could probably trace its ancestry back to the snake that tempted Eve.

“She’s nothing but a heel,” Mr. Bates said dismissively. “You’ve done well.” 

Thomas felt incredibly tired and was no mood to entertain even a sympathetic ally.

“How’s your first day back?”

Thomas shrugged noncommittally, “‘s alright, I suppose.”

“Lord Grantham has asked about you. It seems like your fit a few days ago distressed him greatly.”

Thomas wasn’t sure why the valet was sharing this information with him. It was only drew on his embarrassment of the night in question and made him even more anxious about running into his employer later on in the day.

“In any case, I should think he’ll be happy to see you.” 

Thomas smiled thinly into his tea.

“Are you to be a brick wall today, or are you just trying to be contrary?”

There was the Bates Thomas had come to know and appreciate, yet he was too weary to welcome it. His run-in with Miss O’Brien had set his nerves on edge and reminded him of his distinct lack of cigarettes.

“And so what if I am?”

Mr. Bates shook his head and laughed, “I sometimes wonder why I bother.” He took the saying ‘water off a duck’s back’ to whole new level.

“My grandfather came down with bronchitis when I was young.”

Thomas looked up from his tea. To say his expression suggested he didn’t care would have been rude. Completely true, but rude.

“He was a right bastard,” he laughed, “Moaned from dawn ‘till dusk, always getting me to do little things for him. And yelled when I didn’t do them fast enough. 

“Anna was right last night – one has to marvel at what you’re doing. Without a peep too.

“I can only imagine how many more welts I would have sported if my granddad had stopped smoking as well,” Mr. Bates paused here, frowning, “‘Course, he did die not much longer after.” 

Thomas wasn’t quite sure how to respond – was that a compliment or a deadly prediction?

“Just be careful around the maids and footmen. You know how they like to scheme and talk about their superiors. Don’t give them anything to fuel their fires.”

Again, Thomas wasn’t sure how to take the comment – was it dig at him for his past actions or a genuine warning given to – and by – a friend. To say his head was reeling would put it lightly, and he felt like an idiot. 

For a paranoid moment, Thomas was convinced smoking had made him smarter; with every puff he reinforced his above average intellect, but for everyday he went without his brain took an assault. Perhaps he had just overdone it with the medicated vapours. Now his head was starting to hurt. He hoped it wasn’t permanent at the very least.

He decided to give Mr. Bates the benefit of the doubt. If he was being fair, he would say he was being very charitable, considering his mood. If he was being honest, he would say he was just the tiniest bit impressed with his own generosity.

“I’m glad I have your council then.” Upon realising that no matter how hard he tried, statements like that would always sound sarcastic from his mouth, he elaborated, “There are too many ill-wishers in the house not to.

“Let’s just hope I don’t go the way of your granddad in near future.” He bid Mr. Bates a good day and returned to his duties.

Work was a far lighter affair than usual, as Mr. Clarkson must have advised Carson to go easy on him for the remainder of the week. It was just as well because after his confusing talk with Mr. Bates, fatigue once again crashed into him and he found himself pining for bed. Time and space felt as though they were entrenched in molasses. His duties counting the pantry contents developed into a flustered and inaccurate enterprise that made him want to lock himself in there and sob. Looking at his blotted and much erred inventory order sheet, he was ashamed to think Carson would eventually read it. Had he himself not been present for his own education, he would very much doubt his grasp on simple arithmetic and the English language.

The midday meal, however, improved his mood somewhat. He exchanged pleasantries with the Bateses and even Jimmy, whose smile brightened the dining hall considerably. Thomas also rejoiced in the fact that he performed the best cold-shoulder of his life in ignoring Miss O’Brien. Without previous agreement, Mr. Bates joined him in his endeavour, and Thomas figured they should win an award for their icy tag-team.

Lunch also brightened Mrs. Patmore’s day, as for the second time in as many meals, someone was finally demonstratively appreciative of her work. Though Thomas stuck to just one helping, he ate with such gusto to almost bring a tear to the cook’s eye.

The high from lunch tided him over until the next meal. Unfortunately, since supper coincided with a significant smoke break, he began to feel needy and flushed at the start of the meal. No amount of food would cure it, though not for a lack of trying. The cravings manifested in a dark disposition that made him defensive and shouty. After several barked replies and evil eyes lobbed, the staff became aware of Thomas’ sensitivity and tried to politely ignore him.

The subject of his mood was finally addressed, as it was inevitable due to his boorish behaviour. The subject only served to raise Thomas’ hackles further.

“Have you considered walking the grounds when you’re feeling antsy?” Mrs. Hughes asked, “I should say the fresh air would help to clear your humours.”

Without a beat, the under-butler replied, “Have you ever considered minding your own, Mrs. Hughes?”

The servants sat agape at Thomas’ idiotic bravery and were eagerly awaiting the mayhem that would ensue. 

“Mr. Barrow!” Mr. Carson seemed fit to implode. “You will apologise to Mrs. Hughes immediately.”

“Now, now, Mr. Carson, this isn’t first time I’ve had cheek from an ill-mannered child, and I doubt it will be the last.” Mrs. Hughes was far from impressed.

“I shan’t sit here and allow this sort of behaviour at my table, Elsie. Apologise, Thomas.”

“And what if I don’t mean it?” Thomas knew he was a treading a fine line between living to see another day and meeting his end, but his mouth seemed disconnected from his better judgement. Irritation at the world crackled hotly throughout his body, and he intended to let it be known.

Meanwhile, the meals of the staff were forgotten in lieu of the in-house entertainment.

“Then I will reconsider your participation in tonight’s service, and you can explain to Lord Grantham why you weren’t in attendance.”

Thomas scoffed and shook his head. He felt like a scolded child.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hughes. Please accept my apology.” He made no attempt to sound sincere.

She arched her brow in suspicion. “You can be a stubborn fool sometimes, Mr. Barrow, but I will ignore your behaviour now because you are ill. Just don’t count on my sympathy to last.”

Much to Thomas’ surprise and disappointment, that seemed to be the end of it. The whole affair concluded rather anti-climatically, contrary to many of the servants’ hopes. The false apology and Mrs. Hughes’ generosity seemed to momentarily appease the butler, and Thomas remained on schedule to aid in the dinner service.

He did not presume that to mean Mr. Carson had forgotten about his disrespectful behaviour during dinner. And so, when the butler excused everyone from supper, he was mildly wary of the night to come. Thomas was to help with the dinner service upstairs, which meant working closely with Carson, Alfred, and Jimmy. It also meant having to see Lord Grantham for the first time since he got into this mess. The under-butler had to swallow a lump of concern as he left the dining hall.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas' body is on the mend, and he begins to lose such extreme cravings. With the little help from Downton's cook, he finds other ways to occupy his time.

_The one where Thomas finally sleeps and has a religious experience. Of sorts._

The many trials of the day had most obviously taken their tolls on Thomas' body and piece of mind. Never one for sleeping long or solidly, he regretted each day in his life that he had awoken before he absolutely had to. It wasn't like he did anything productive during those extra minutes each day; he could have banked the accumulated hours and applied them to his situation now. Or at least, his mind assumed he could do so at that very particular moment. A moment that was only separated from his check-up with Doctor Clarkson by a few hours of sleep. It would be pointless to state that he was tired and sluggish, but for accuracy's sake, let the record state he was both tired and sluggish.

These two things made for a very distracted under-butler whose performance was slowly becoming more questionable as the night dragged on. When Thomas was helping to prepare the dining room before the gong rang, he found himself running up the stairs empty handed more than once. Upon reaching the top, he would stand for a few seconds before cluing in said hands were unfilled and that his intended cargo was forgotten in the basement.

Alfred and Jimmy wisely chose to hold their tongues.

At the time the Crawley's finally sat to dinner, Thomas assumed only a heavy sigh from Carson would be necessary to topple him. Stationed at one of the ends of the serving table, it was all that he could do to stand tall and look straight without the assistance of the dependable and upright wall behind him. More thought than he would care to admit went towards mastering the skill of sleeping upright with his eyes open.

It was no wonder then that Lord Grantham noticed the ragged under-butler and directed the family's attention towards him.

"Are you sure you're feeling alright, Barrow?" Robert said with much doubt in his voice. He didn't want to outright state how poorly he thought Thomas was fairing, but he would certainly try his damnedest to imply it. Although the ailing man's appearance was technically acceptable, the lord was happy the family wasn't entertaining any visitors.

"You may take as much time as you deem necessary to recover. Doctor Clarkson has more than made your situation perfectly clear."

Even his mother was eying the under-butler with concern. Though to be perfectly fair, the look could easily be confused with disdain; Robert was never quite sure himself. If his childhood was anything to go by, it could be both.

"No one expects you to sacrifice your health for such a trivial task."

Trivial though it may be, it was Thomas' trivial task, and he had to swallow his irritation at Lord Grantham's dismissive comment. Then he reminded himself how he owed the other man for the fact that he had such a position about which to be patronised.

"Yes, m'lord, but – with respect – it's better if I set to work." As long as work consisted of locking himself in the pantry, taking plenty of tea breaks free of Miss O'Brien. It didn't even have to be a pantry – Thomas would make due with an overly large cupboard if needs must.

The look on Robert's face said that he was not entirely convinced, but he accepted the explanation.

"Yes; idle hands and the like," he offered with a slight smile. "I think I speak for all of us when I say it is good to see you upstairs again."

The looks entertained by Lady Mary and the Dowager Countess, however, did not support such a statement. A pinched indifference would have suited those two better. At least Lady Cora, Thomas noticed, seemed concerned. He was not totally sure if he had remembered to gauge Lady Edith's level of interest, but he was definitely indifferent to any concern of Branson's.

"I hope the prescribed medicines have been helpful?"

"Yes, very much so. I have to thank you, m'lord."

Robert smiled, "I'm glad to hear it."

Thomas merely nodded and sighed with relief when Lord Grantham's attention drew back towards his family.

The remainder of the dinner concluded without incident, much to Thomas' delight.

After the family retired, however, it became apparent that Mr. Carson was still sore from the under-butler's churlish behaviour during their own supper, as he made Thomas do something he had not done in a very long while: he was to relinquish his responsibility of collecting and counting the silverware, so he could help the hallboys return the excess foods to the kitchen and help with their clean up. In no such circumstances was he to abuse his power of under-butler and persuade the footmen to trade positions.

It soon became an arrangement that made no one happy; Thomas was impatient and annoyed that he had to be there, while the hallboys were hesitant to work with a superior of theirs who was so impatient and annoyed. As such, it was an uncomfortable process for all involved and took far longer than any of them thought possible.

The strain came to a head just as they were concluding their tasks for the evening. Due to his haste to finish and escape from his insufferable company, Thomas was moving too quickly without proper care. He was carrying a vat full of inedible kitchen scraps that needed to be placed outside in the abbey's compost. The under-butler was walking through the kitchen door to complete his task when at the same time Alfred, returning from serving the family, came barrelling through the door.

The two men collided forcefully. Contrary to popular opinion, the following events did not occur in slow-motion, nor was it in any way preventable. Before either of them could properly comprehend, Alfred was covered in much of the scraps. Thomas, on the other hand, was only slightly ruffled and was counting his fortunes in avoiding the overflow.

Both footman and under-butler stared astonished at each other, as the other occupants of the kitchen gawked at the sight. Alfred had turned a peculiar shade of pink under the slop, and he would later adamantly swear that he made absolutely no squeaking noises despite what people may have said to the contrary.

"I am terribly sorry… I can't help think I'm responsible for this, Alfred," Thomas looked contrite as he spoke to the footman, who returned it with a look of surprise. The bucket, now lightened of most of its load, hung loosely in Thomas' hand.

Before Alfred could graciously accept what could account for an apology, the under-butler interrupted him.

"But I also cannot help but not care." Thomas smiled and breezed away from the distraught footman and the amused kitchen staff.

Things were starting to look up.

Thomas' good fortune continued to increase in the continuing days. That night, he was finally able to sleep through the whole night, and had begun to resume a normal sleep pattern. He also had reined in most of the thoughts relating to smoking and genocide that had persisted since he quit.

In the morning, when Thomas sat down to breakfast, the day brightened electrically when he found two large pieces of toast slathered with butter and jam waiting for him. With a smile, he bit into the bread and savoured the sweet jam, not entirely sure – or caring – of its flavour.

"Absolutely lovely, Mrs. Patmore!" He was genuinely touched. The pessimism that had dogged him for the past days was starting to lift.

"Hang on. How come he got jam when no one else did?" Alfred asked as he let goopy porridge drip from his spoon in distaste. It was obvious he hadn't forgiven Thomas' cavalier attitude from the previous night.

Jimmy seemed rather intent on the answer as well.

"Because unlike some boys, Thomas isn't a rude busybody," Mrs. Patmore said cheerfully as she tucked into her own porridge, despite its texture and taste.

The servants who were paying attention, which was the majority of them despite the early hour, shared dubious looks and checked the cook for any outward signs of delirium. To his credit, Thomas stayed uninvolved and finished his breakfast with a smile. Needless to say, some of the more hysterical members on staff wondered if the apocalypse was nigh.

Due to his performance the previous day, Thomas found himself on even lighter duty the next. He expected it was due mostly to his disorganised itemisation of the inventory that had Carson bar him from many of his usual duties and not – despite the butler's inability to find humour in most things – the messy end that Alfred and he made of the evening. He also expected he should begin to rephrase that in his head if he were to stay sane.

The two men came to an understanding: Thomas would stubbornly not rest in bed, no matter how much it would serve him well. Instead, he was to remain outside of his bedroom, fully presentable and pretending to overlook something or other downstairs. In turn, he would remain out of Carson's way while the butler performed most of their collective duties precisely and with dignity.

Or at least, that was what Thomas got out of their earlier conversation. Mr. Carson had a predilection for overreacting and was controlling at the best of times when it came to under-butlers encroaching on butlerly responsibilities. He failed to see a point in contesting the arrangement.

Therefore, after breakfast the under-butler had very little to do. Before he realised what he was doing, he found himself loitering in the kitchen.

"And what can I do for you, Mr. Barrow?" Mrs. Patmore asked, having noticed Thomas hanging about awkwardly.

The kitchen was in organised chaos, with Daisy and Ivy busy collecting ingredients and kneading doughs. Several of the hallboys and scullery maids scuttled in and out.

"I—uhm," Thomas began. He decided to be truthful. "I'm actually not sure. I don't rightly know what to do with myself." He smiled uncertainly without looking her in the eye. He felt unusual without anything to do — more like a hindrance than he thought he would have felt.

She regarded him for a moment before stating, "Well you can start by telling me what this needs."

She walked over to the table and collected a piece of pudding that had been cooling. She handed it to the under-butler and watched him take a bite.

Though he waited a few seconds to chew, his mouth was mostly full when he replied, "It's brilliant!" He popped the remaining piece in his mouth.

The cook beamed, "Well, I'm not just a pretty face, you know."

Thomas was glad his mouth was full, giving him a suitable excuse to let that comment die untouched. He couldn't trust what would come unbidden from his mouth, and he wished to continue to sample items from the kitchen. Thomas merely smiled in return.

"Here, tell me whether or not this is poisonous," she suggested with a smirk as she grabbed another morsel from her table.

Had Thomas been a more impressionable man, he would have dropped to his knees and hailed Mrs. Patmore the Messiah returned. He would have offered to bathe her feet in expensive oils with his hair, despite the awkward logistics of it all. Luckily for all those involved, he was not. As it was, the moan that escaped his mouth could never be considered religious and shot tingles through the cook in places that had not tingled in a while.

For as soon as the piece touched his tongue, each taste bud fired brightly and his whole mouth erupted in an explosion of unadulterated, holy flavour. It was the most delicious thing he had ever eaten since the jam he had enjoyed earlier. He was beginning to suspect that his sense of taste had clarified while he had recovered. He could learn to enjoy life again, if this was the reward for giving up his beloved cigarettes. Maybe.

He didn't even know what he was eating; nor did he care.

By then, the two of them had caught the attention of Ivy and Daisy, but Thomas found that he did not mind. After so much misery over the past few days, he sought enjoyment wherever he could find it. Whatever he was eating was amazing and required his full attention. Surely they had helped to make the edible masterpiece, so let them see a grateful patron for once.

"What—How?... That was," Thomas had to collect himself if he didn't want to make himself look a fool. What he wanted to say was that it tasted like the meaning of life, and he wanted it all in his mouth – forever; he wanted to climb inside of it and cocoon himself within its savoury network.

"That was edible." He managed to state but failed to hide the wonder he felt.

Mrs. Patmore just smiled, happy to see her food get such a reception. No one in the servant's dining hall ever mentioned the food that she made each day; nor did she ever see the reactions of the family when the food she slaved over reached their table. She was also woman enough to admit she liked to see Thomas express something other than sorrow for once. She believed his face suited a smile.

She was also a woman with a job that needed doing.

"Now off you go! This isn't a market place. I've got plenty of work to do."

The fact that they both felt happier than when Thomas arrived was not commented on by either party. And if Thomas happened to have found his way back to the kitchen after the midday meal, it was by sheer math that he would return; there were only so many rooms in which he could pretend to be busy. And if more pieces of excess food found their place in Thomas' mouth, Mrs. Patmore could not be blamed, as she did not have eyes in the back of her head.

That night, after the staff supper, Alfred, Jimmy, Ivy, and Daisy once again found themselves gossiping in the servants' hall. Everyone else had left to fulfill their duties. Even Thomas had managed to convince Mr. Carson that he was fit to help the butler gather the silverware for the dinner service. The fact that his colouring had returned to normal and he no longer shook like a leaf from sleep deprivation certainly worked in the under-butler's favour.

"Oh come on, Alfred, you're not still cross you ended up covered in slop! 's not like he meant it to happen." Jimmy laughed.

A dark scowl crumpled the other footman's face, "Easy enough for you to say. You weren't there. And I can't speak for his depraved ways – could've orchestrated the whole thing on the sly like just to spite me!"

The two girls looked mildly amused at Alfred's ire.

"I think you're giving Mr. Barrow far too much credit," Ivy grinned, ever tickled to mock the under-butler since his fainting spell; she suspected it was he who started the rumour about her man hands, which was ridiculous. They were a normal working girl's hands.

"He seemed happy enough to see it happen," Alfred grumbled, not giving an inch.

"I just think that he's, you know – happy? I mean, compared to yesterday, he looked good today, didn't he?" Daisy suggested. Her words had truth to them, as at supper Thomas kept his derisive remarks to a minimum. To everyone at the table, he seemed content to share his time with the others – a rare occasion indeed.

"That's just 'cause he's hoodwinked Mrs. Patmore into sneaking him food. Don't know how he's done it, but she's completely fooled."

"I don't think that's how it is," Daisy said having seen their exchanges for herself.

"Well, I wish he'd share his trick with us. Did you see that jam?" Jimmy looked back on his own breakfast and was saddened to think he would be eating the very same thing the next morning.

"'Course we did, we helped make it, didn't we? Besides, I'm sure if you just asked nicely, you could get a bit to yourself," Ivy said. She and Daisy both shared Mrs. Patmore's appreciation of Thomas vocal praise for their handiwork. Man-hand rumours or not, it was nice to know someone valued their contribution to Downton. She was not impervious to the criticisms of her porridge.

"You are barmy, Ivy. Mrs. Patmore'd be more likely to bake us into a pudding than to offer us any of it." Alfred said, with Jimmy nodding his head in agreement.

Ivy rolled her eyes, highly doubting Mrs. Patmore would ever cook the footmen for dinner. Mostly.

"We should get back," Ivy said, moving towards the door. "Mr. Carson'll be looking for you soon too."

The four split up, heading towards their respective duties for the night. The footmen were still puzzled as to how Thomas seemed to have mystified so many of the female staff members. Neither would admit the envy they felt over what they assumed was great power, and if they sent more sharp looks at the under-butler during the dinner service, Thomas made no note of it. They did, however, vow to keep an astute eye on the under-butler to see if they could glean any tricks. It ultimately became a masochistic stategy when they became aware of the other treats that Thomas began to enjoy and it was soon abandoned in the upcoming weeks.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fast forward a few months, and Thomas is seventy three days smoke free.

_The one that isn't funny cause Mrs. Hughes is handing out life lessons and Thomas decides to listen_

Thomas Barrow had been called many things in his life time. Few were flattering, some were true, and most were terms inappropriate to repeat in the company of ladies. The phrase ‘generous with praise’, however, had never been used to describe Thomas during his adult life and so was absent from the extensive list of labels he had acquired over the years.

That was why Mrs. Patmore, while sitting with the under-butler during a quick break, nearly choked on her tea when Thomas next opened his mouth.

“I suppose the doctor was right, after all – about the smoking.” He said this because at this point, he would have normally taken a drag from a cigarette a few months ago. The fact that he wasn’t lamenting its absence supported his charitable thoughts towards the doctor.

“Feel better now than I have in a long while,” he said while examining his now stainless fingers.

To her credit, the cook recovered quickly, “Oh now he says it! You’ve only been free of that terrible cough for months now.”

Thomas looked at Mrs. Patmore evenly but held his tongue. She was right after all. 

As the doctor predicted, his bronchitis was almost immediately remedied and forgotten about. So too were the threats of emphysema, respiratory distress, and a much earlier-than-appreciated grave. His wheezing had ceased and his coughing slowly diminished over the months. Just as Doctor Clarkson had stated, only a few adjustments were made, which was how Thomas found himself several weeks into an enforced embargo on smoking. Seventy-third day, in fact – a number about which the under-butler was rather proud.

“Now, just remember who was tellin’ ya this before the big doctor came in,” she grasped his hand and wiggled it about a bit in jest. “Why, I think it was that maid who had a thing or two to say!”

Thomas could not help from rolling his eyes at her comment. “That was merely a coincidence. The day we take advice from Dr. Scullery Maid is the day we all die of the plague.” He thought back to the dirt on the girl’s hands when she touched him and wondered how they all hadn’t already died of some disease.

The cook smiled into her cup, not quite disagreeing.

The fact that the two were having such a chat was the most unexpected and baffling by-product of Thomas giving up smoking. 

His attachment to Downton’s cook had occurred slowly over the weeks and – contrary to all reason – happily reciprocated. While the under-butler was still struggling with his cravings, he had gravitated towards the kitchen more often than nought. Mrs. Patmore, for her part, routinely forgot to shoo him away. They had bonded first over food, as Thomas’ love of it had not waned, and the cook’s penchant for accepting flattery had only grown once stoked. After a kind of routine had developed, they realised they had an affinity for other things besides food – including their weakness for gossip and their ability to ridicule the maids.

At first, their alliance confounded the staff. After considerable shock wore off, they slowly became accustomed to seeing the two occasionally sharing a laugh over tea. The staff still struggled, however, to coincide these chats with the more frequent bickering the two entertained, wherein one would loudly mock the other. Never escalating into full rows, it became an unusual facet to their friendship. 

The senior staff was just relieved that Thomas had befriended an older lady who was unlikely to scheme and get someone fired. As skilled as they both were for ridicule, Mrs. Patmore tempered the natural cruelty that Thomas brewed. While in her presence, the under-butler’s nature could be taken as teasing rather than as nasty comments. Or at least, her benevolent sway could be counted upon most of the time.

“And what’s got you in such a contemplative mood today?” The cook asked, curious as to what spurred on his compliments for the doctor.

“I’m allowed, aren’t I?” Thomas was being evasive on purpose. He enjoyed his time spent with Mrs. Patmore, but he didn’t require sharing his inner-most thoughts and dreams to her. 

“Should I reason it’s also what’s got you smiling away the day?” She was not alone in noticing the under-butler’s raised spirits that day. A few seemingly innocent smiles graced his face while he conducted his earlier duties, which for Thomas was unusual. Even Mr. Carson had noticed the overall brighter disposition Thomas had been radiating.

“The sun is shining,” he said as an excuse with a shrug.

The cook looked dubious. “It’s overcast.”

“Still shining behind the clouds, isn’t it?”

“No wonder then, you’ve got your head in them clouds.” Mrs. Patmore realised she wasn’t going to get a straight answer out of the under-butler. “I’ve got to see that that Ivy hasn’t burned the kitchen down.” She left Thomas alone.

The truth was, he just felt good. He had quit smoking, and survived. And so had everyone else, for that matter.

Before his diagnosis, Thomas would have thought anyone mad if they suggested that he give up the smoke. If he was feeling particularly fiendish, he would have compared the person’s intelligence with that of a slug’s before dismissing them altogether for the rest of their natural lives. His inclination towards fiendish behaviour was second only to Miss O’Brien at Downton, so the probability of such an incident happening was high.

Reality, however, rarely occurred the way the under-butler expected it to. Doctor Clarkson – that “anyone” who would suggest such a preposterous undertaking – was not compared to a slug, and Thomas regretfully ended the longest relationship of his life.

The experience quickly topped several of the mental lists the under-butler kept. Across the board, it sat second on the lists entitled “Hardest Things I’ve Had To Do”, “Things Never To Do Again”, and “Things To Wish On Enemies”. At one point, he thought the cravings and lack of sleep would be the end of him. Or that it would have killed his fellow servants, or caused some of the servants to co-ordinate and exact his murder. In the heat of his withdrawal, he would have welcomed any of those outcomes to escape his ruined body and perverse mind. On the other side of it, he was thankful none of them had come to pass.

With each passing day, the persistent need for a smoke grew weaker and weaker. Each day that he craved less, the better Thomas felt. The better Thomas felt, the more tolerable and helpful he became to the staff. Or, rather, he was as helpful as he was before he quit smoking, which – compared to the past few weeks – was extraordinarily co-operative. The under-butler had finally resumed his duties in full.

Since quitting, and despite returning to work as usual, he found himself with pockets of free time. These pockets, which were formerly spent smoking as much as he could, were quite considerable. Thomas had begun to fill them with a much more worthwhile and beneficial pursuit.

Because as amusing as his new camaraderie with Mrs. Patmore was, the cook’s influence was not always positive. Proof in point: the paunch around Thomas’ midsection that had begun to appear not much after his increased visits to the kitchen. As a man whose vanity occasionally surpassed that of the ladies’ upstairs, that addition was unacceptable. He recognised and accepted that he was not as young as the footmen, nor as privileged as the Crawleys, but he knew he had something going on worth preserving. He also knew he would have to have worked diligently to fit into his cricket whites.

Therefore, a few weeks back, Thomas had set into motion a simple plan that was his most successful to date; he had began to walk the abbey grounds. A bemused Mr. Carson had even allowed a shift in the under-butler’s least time sensitive responsibilities to allow for the treks. Before long, the staff could expect to find him making his way across the property, no matter the weather. On his half-days, he would sometimes explore the wooded area at the edges. Mrs. Patmore had even begun to set aside a packed snack for Thomas on those days.

To his disappointment, Lord Grantham had also noticed his new hobby and met him on the grounds one day, which was how Thomas reluctantly added professional dog walker to his long list of ever expanding duties as Downton’s under-butler. He should have expected that his failed scheme locking Isis into the cabin would one day come back to haunt him. Luckily, the dog seemed to have wholly forgotten her harrowing experience and did not hold a grudge against the man.

In fact, her enthusiasm was infectious and soon Thomas grew to enjoy the dog’s company. When Lord Grantham allowed it, Thomas would collect her on his half-days to explore the woods together.

As planned, the daily exercise attacked his expanding middle. Thomas returned to his normal weight and his self-esteem and confidence returned to their normal, soaring levels. An unintended but welcomed result was that the extra time spent outdoors also improved his moods. The liberal cuddles that he shared with Isis during snack breaks when out of sight of the others were also appreciated by the under-butler.

He had completed a shorter walk earlier on in the day, well before he had sat down with Mrs. Patmore. The fresh air cleared a bit of his choleric and set the day off well. The prancing of the dog after finding a stick longer than twice her size caused him to smile a few times at the memory. His good mood accounted for his praise of the doctor. Once the cook left him alone at the table, it also produced another set of generous thoughts.

He decided, with humility, that he should finally approach Mrs. Hughes to apologise for his rude words at supper those months before.

That night, after the day’s duties were done, he met with Mrs. Hughes in her sitting room. He tried his best to flatter the head-housemaid when admitting that she had been right about the virtues of walking. Having very little practical experience in such behaviour, it came out more stilted than Thomas had hoped.

Mrs. Hughes, of course, had seen through his poorly formed fawning. For her part, she had foreseen his apology; if she was younger, she would have bet good money that she had known he would make such overtures before even he did. Not that she would mention either fact to the under-butler. In any case, it allowed her to prepare a response and a pot of tea in advance.

“Thomas, have you realised yet that most of what we say and do,” she spoke of Mr. Carson and herself, “is always for the benefit of the staff?”

The under-butler kept quiet in his seat, for he had a sneaking suspicion that a lecture was brewing.

“There are reasons that we may seem overbearing, but it is never because of some malevolent ill-intent or whatever you think motivates us sometimes.” 

When Thomas opened his mouth to deny any such thoughts, accurate though they may have been, Mrs. Hughes shushed him, “I didn’t become head-housemaid of Downton Abbey because of any favours given to me, and neither did Mr. Carson when he became butler. We rose through the ranks with hard work and have years of experience between us.

“So when I tell you something, it’s because I’d like to think I know what I’m talking about. And the same goes for Mr. Carson.”

She titled her head to the side and smiled at the under-butler.

“Despite your attempts to the contrary, you do have friends here, myself included,” She took a sip of tea, “Though at times against my better judgement. Heaven knows Lord Grantham thinks fondly of you, and even young James is starting to turn around,” she cocked an eyebrow at the mention of the footman.

Thomas broke eye contact in disbelief. Part of him wanted to be unaffected by her words; he knew very well his continued employment was due to Robert Crawley’s compassion (and not, as Thomas thought when he was feeling melancholy, due to a competitive streak and a love for good cricket). He knew he had supporters at Downtown, so what she was saying was redundant.

But another part of him was shocked that she would even bring up the footman’s name in his presence after being privy to the details of the near scandal.

That part of him was overwhelmed by another larger, louder part of him that was elated to hear about Jimmy’s growing friendliness from another person. He felt vindication coursing through his veins as he realised that maybe he wasn’t just imagining it.

As a man in his thirties, he realised he needed to cool it and maybe find another outlet in life. At the very least find a crush that wasn’t so young, perfectly cruel, and unavailable.

“But that’s only going to persist if you continue to improve your temperament. I know you have it in you to be a little nicer than you’ve let on in the past, if these few months are anything to go by.

“And I’m not ashamed to say that you’re doing remarkably well in your position of under-butler; I know it’s a bit of a broad title, but you’ve taken it in stride.”

Thomas let a small smile break out on his face at that comment. He was glad someone had finally admitted to the occasionally ludicrous position he held that left him doing a little bit of everything for everyone.

“Tell that to Mr. Carson,” he said ruefully.

Mrs. Hughes laughed and admitted, “Not that I would ever dare to speak for the man, but he has noticed your improved attitude.

“He appreciates your contribution, but he’s a proud man. In fact, I should think he would welcome it if he knew you were only thinking of the house.”

As an under-butler, Thomas assumed his motivations would only ever be for the benefit of the household and was confused why Mr. Carson had to be reminded of such a fact. His dedication to his new and somewhat vague position should be proof enough.

“This is usually the part when you thank your superior for so kindly sharing her wisdom,” Mrs Hughes said in jest.

“Thank you, Mrs Hughes,” Thomas offered quickly as a formality, “It’s just that – that I feel I like I’ve already done this. Mr. Carson knows that I’m proficient in what I do, and I mean only for the best operation of Downton.”

The good mood he had managed to maintain throughout the day was starting to darken at these thoughts.

“He doesn’t like me,” he said, putting the butler’s opinions mildly. The words expressed in Carson’s office those months ago, however false, still stung bitterly. Thomas was also astute enough to expect that the butler’s dislike had its origins in something more than just the under-butler’s sexual preferences. It was something that he had begun to accept and even reciprocate – in the most professional way of course.

“And when has that ever stopped you before? You are proof enough that employment here isn’t a popularity contest amongst the staff.”

Thomas wondered if Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Bates had both learned the art of encouragement from the same person. That or he was beginning to think the staff took a special delight in offering him backhanded comments. He was also beginning to doubt his footing within the conversation. He had only prepared for a simple apology and was not sure what he was receiving instead.

“I’m only saying you weren’t always the easiest to mentor when you were younger, but you have improved since then.

“And now that you’ve overcome some hardships, I’d say you have things to be proud of. Let that motivate your work and not any resentment you may feel towards Mr. Carson for his opinions.”

Thomas had always thought Mrs. Hughes compassionate, but he was beginning to think she was far more perceptive than he had ever given her credit for.

“As much as it saddens me to think it, we won’t be here forever. Mr. Carson knows you’ll be replacing him one day, but he’s been butler of the abbey for a very long time. Just continue what you’ve been doing and prove to Mr. Carson that Downton will one day be left to capable hands.”

She rose and walked towards the door, “Now, if that’s all, it’s late. I’m glad walking is to your liking, Thomas. I’ll bid you goodnight, and see you bright and early in the morning.”

Thomas returned to his room that night in a state of excitement that was unusual for the under-butler. Not that anyone would have noticed upon looking at him, as he prided himself on his control and professionalism. Additionally, considering the time he left Mrs. Hughes’ quarters, few should have reason to roam the halls in order to have seen him. Thomas would have gladly channelled his agitation into his powers as under-butler and scolded the prowler. In returning undisturbed, he was a little disappointed no one crossed his path that night.

His conversation with Mrs. Hughes had turned quite a few cogs – cogs Thomas was embarrassed to admit that had rusted over in disuse – and upset a flurry of thoughts and emotions. Under the whirring and clicking of his synapses firing rapidly, the under-butler was doubtful he would get any sleep that night, but for once, he would not mind.

_Things of Great Import_ had to be considered.

Partly his understanding that the entire Downton staff was comprised of insufferable simpleton would have to be rectified. Mrs. Hughes certainly fit neither category, and he supposed Mrs. Patmore wasn’t altogether intolerable. To his displeasure, he realised he would have to re-evaluate how he now fit as a member of the service staff.

When Thomas first joined Downton, he had never felt truly appreciated and thought he had just filled a position. The others had easily accepted their positions, both at the abbey and in life. They effortlessly slipped into roles of support and friendship with one another, when he only had Miss O’Brien. Before, he saw her as a comrade-in-arms, someone who also saw through the others and their desperate need for false companionship. They were the only two who knew their true place – the real reason why they were at Downton – and that was for the job – the money. It was better to accept that then to delude yourself otherwise, and he and O’Brien armed themselves against such fantasies in themselves and others. He had convinced himself to hate and conspire against the others who wished to deceive themselves. 

The years before the war, Thomas had to admit, were entertaining, all things considered. And he didn’t have to convince himself that it was fun to rile William, God rest his soul. Some people were just asking for it.

Most of all, however, he had felt resentful of a system that vilified him as malignant; he had felt resentful for the others never having to hide who they were; he had felt resentful for the ease with which everyone else could interact with one another. And he had foolishly thought O’Brien had empathised with his plights, never grasping that their fellowship was just another strategy for the lady’s maid. He had forgotten the one thing that had united them, which quite possibly made him dumber than the rest.

Thick enough to think Jimmy, of all men, would ever be interested in him. His scheme to kiss the sleeping boy had finally added credence to his father’s claim that he had been dropped on his head as a child. He could not otherwise justify why he thought Jimmy would wake up like Sleeping Beauty and all would be right and just in the world. For one thing, James was a young, viciously ambitious, straight man. For another, that Jimmy was anything other than those things was insinuated by none other than O’Brien. Also, while Thomas was being honest with himself, it was sort of creepy to sneak a kiss in the middle of the night.

Perhaps, Thomas was willing to admit, that he had been the deluded one; he was equally as guilty for searching for a place to belong just like the others he had ridiculed. At least they went about it the right way, with kind words and actions to back them. To be honest, he had not caught many flies with vinegar, not that he was particularly fond of flies nor certain if he was in need of them. And now he saw Miss O’Brien for what she was – another twisted soul who had been hardened by bitterness, disappointed with her lot in life like him. That was as close as he would get to forgiving the woman for her treachery.

And after The Foolish Night, Thomas began to realise that he might belong somewhere despite his wasted efforts to prove that he neither wanted nor needed to belong anywhere. Lord Grantham had shown his hand rather overtly, proving his loyalty to the under-butler. Thomas assumed – and dearly hoped – that this was because the lord was ignorant of many of the things he had done and said in his youth. And yet, despite these youthful mistakes, he even had a few significant allies downstairs.

Thomas now had a job that he would have once scoffed at for being beneath him. Now older, he realised he wasn’t above the position. It and the people at Downton were the only ones that separated him from living on the streets. Like it or not, he needed this job and these people. Once promoted to under-butler, he had devoted himself to the job and tried to be co-operative and helpful in a way that he had never been as valet or footman. He was content to know that Mrs. Hughes had noticed this change in behaviour. It would have been preferable to hear such praise from the butler, but Thomas knew not to ask for miracles.

Putting his nose to the grindstone, lying low, and avoiding controversy were appropriate strategies for that time. But now, it was no longer suitable. He had to reach out and make connections with the others.

And no, that would never entail him making tea for anyone or listening to anyone’s dreams and nightmares, thank you. There was such a thing as professional dignity.

Rather, he would finally make good on his promise to support Mr. Carson in the training and managing of the staff, whether the butler liked it or not. He could spot inefficiencies and had ideas to solve them; and he would share his plans, regardless of their reception. Regardless of Mr. Carson’s perception of him – or anyone’s else’s, for that matter. He was still bitter against a system that continued to vilify his kind, but no longer would he rage against it ineffectively. He’d put his powers into proving to everyone the worth he knew he had. Thomas vowed to fully earn the title of under-butler and not just be the person who did a little bit of everything because he had to.

Quitting smoking had been the biggest and hardest change to his life since the war. It would now become a turning point in Thomas’ life as well. If he had survived that, surely, he could survive everything else thrown his way, including any criticism Mr. Carson might harbour. Thomas now had ten years’ experience and the blessings of Lord Grantham – two very powerful things in the right hands.

Thomas had to promise himself that he would not abuse this power and make the footmen’s lives any harder than they had to be. With a devious smile he thought of ways he could justify pranks against the younger staff and still maintain his professionalism.

He fell asleep content that he would one day become Downton Abbey’s butler, and people would say he was just as good, if not better than Mr. Carson – Thomas surely cut a better figure than him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so concludes the story that started just a small prompt about Thomas quitting smoking and experiencing withdrawal.
> 
> My plan was to use this journey of Thomas' as an opportunity to explain things about his character and project what I think could happen to his character in the next season. He'll still be the snarky guy we know and love, but there's a maturity and humility in his behaviour that was lacking pre WWI. At least, that's how I hope his arc will go, so most likely, I'll be wrong.
> 
> Thanks for those who read it! Hope you enjoyed.


End file.
